contremineur

At dusk every flower looks blue.

There’s relief in loving someone who doesn’t remember you. Who insists that no one came by yesterday, who says she didn’t spend the afternoon unpacking paper bags of coffee, crackers, strawberry preserves. All of it vanished off the warped rose countertop. She tries but can’t locate your name. Like a drift of music every time you leave, your name slips off, to where? A dusty corner, maybe the river, maybe over the bridge and up the cemetery road. It doesn’t faze her. Your name is another word to cross off her list, something she doesn’t need anymore. Nameless, you hold her hand, relieved of your story. Relieved of everything but breath.

And in each noodle shop, bowls dusted with salt.